"Enough," Midas snapped.
The word cracked through the hall like a lash. Yet even as his voice rang with command, something treacherous flickered in his eyes at the mention of the western neighbors—and he remembered one king in particular. Was it fear, or was it perhaps fury? The distinction was razor-thin.
The crown prince leaned close, murmuring urgently into his father's ear. Midas listened in silence, thick fingers drumming against the gilded armrest, each tap measured, deliberate. When his gaze lifted, it did not settle on Kasmeri, nor Bernard, nor Odin.
It landed on Lara.
"You," the king said at last. His voice dropped, heavy with menace. "A woman bold enough to speak in my hall must be bold enough to answer a question."
Lara stepped forward once more, the echo of her shoes sounding far too loud in the hush that followed.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
Midas studied her as a jeweler might study a flawed gem—searching for cracks, for any sign of weakness.
